Do the Ripe Thing

My grandmother was a tall woman who always wore a long, black skirt on which I tugged insistently whenever my young mind needed a bit of information. More often than not this happened at the marketplace or in her garden, because some fruit had triggered my curiosity.

“Are they riped yet, Grandmother, are they?”

” Ripe , little love, ripe , not riped . No, they are not.”

“When will they be, Grandmother, when?”

“When they look orange.”

“How long will that be?”

She looked at me from behind her metal-rimmed glasses, her eyes laughing at my 5-year-old impatience. “They” were apricots hanging high above my head, still showing some flushes of pale green in the depths of their salmon robes.

I was slowly discovering the miracle of ripening fruit as I looked at my grandmother’s “pet” tree, a seedling brought to her from “Persia” by her brother on leave from World War I battlefields. Persia was, to her, a generic term that could refer equally as well to Spain as to Portugal, Germany, Italy or, in this case, the Dardanelles.

Most of her fruit trees had come from faraway lands she would never visit. For one complicated reason or another, they each had landed in her garden in Touraine, France. To me, these foreigners looked no different from the trees in neighboring gardens. In fact, much later, all the children in the family concluded, in a flurry of giggles, that our grandmother had her history mixed up with her geography.

Whatever their origin, these trees filled the larders of three families each year with multiple basketsful of color, taste and smell. Still, there remained the terrible difficulty of knowing when the fruit would be ripe, so I took to observing the trees for long stretches of time.

The cherry tree presented a dilemma, because the fruit, like the American Queen Anne cherry, had one red cheek and one white one. Mercifully, I had learned from Grandmother to “look for the fly”; as soon as enough sugar had developed in the fruit, the flies would come and try to spoil it for us.

As soon as I spotted the first fly at the cherry tree, out came ladders and buckets, and our kitchen was transformed into a cherry fair. Sugar and fruit were tumbled into the copper kettle that hung over the hearth, a lot of churning with a long paddle took place and, with flushed cheeks and sometimes burned hands, Grandmother poured the ruby-colored jam into those well-known pots a confitures.

The ceremony always concluded with the pouring of the paraffin over the jam and the sealing of each jar with an elegantly ruffled parchment and a brightly colored thread. The label gave the pedigree of the jam: the owner of the tree, the date of the picking, the date of cooking and the cook’s signature. Fifty-seven years later, probably out of nostalgia, I occasionally still write such an elaborate label.

It was my great-aunt Orelly who one day caught me sniffing and touching fresh peaches. These peaches were called Grosse Madeleine, and I, of course, had been assured that they were named after me, only to discover years later that they had first been grafted in 1735. Anyway, Aunt Orelly thought I used my nose too much; it was not lady-like. And any French person will vouch for the fact that a well-behaved French child does not touch anything.

But when it came to peaches, it was almost impossible not to touch them, because their skin was covered with a wonderfully soft down. And it was difficult not to smell them, because their perfume could penetrate the soul. When I finally bit into one, several bees would come to retrieve the sticky juice that covered my face. I have always loved bees, and I would sit there quietly, eyes closed, while they tickled my face with the buzzing of their wings.

In my family, the ripening of peaches and pears called for the great little ceremony of burying the fruit in a mound of warm ashes on the bottom of the hearth and baking them for a good hour. The peaches came out of the ashes bright red; we slipped off their skins, cut them in half and filled their pit cavities with creme fraiche . The pears were filled with creme fraiche , pear pulp and a dab of pear brandy to make the most delicious of desserts.

Our pears were always picked hard and green because of their tendency to spoil on the tree. Many disappeared into the keeping room where, their stems having been dipped in hot wax to seal in their internal moisture, they would slowly ripen and appear miraculously mellow and concentrated on the wintertime table.

Of course, the most interesting procedures were saved for the grapes. The vineyard--three whole acres--was picked clean of the best grapes by the men of the family, who turned them into an amazing amount of excellent Cabernet Franc wine. That was the most important harvest, because it brought money for the winter.

But here and there, mixed among the wine grapes in each section of vineyard, were plants of the wonderful Chasselas Dore grape, the glory of the French dessert table. Of this we were allowed to eat as much as we wanted for one full day. The rest of the long, elegant clusters were also dipped in hot wax so that they might reappear on the dinner table for the Reveillon--the midnight dinner--of the New Year.

We children would gladly have forgotten about the little clusters, or grappillons , of second-growth Cabernet Franc still hanging in the vineyard, but one day in late October, just before All Saint’s Day, we would pick these not-yet-ripe berries to make verjus .

Because its name means “green juice,” it is often believed that verjus is made only with not-quite-ripe white grape varieties, but we made it with a red variety and it was just as interesting in taste and look. All we did was crush the grapes in an old but clean half barrel, add a little sugar and a pinch of the same yeast grandmother used to prepare her bread and let this brew ferment, neatly covered with a sheet, at the back of the kitchen.

Barely sweet-sour when the bubbles finally subsided, the verjus was filtered by my grandfather, who added whichever dose of Cognac or Armagnac he deemed necessary to stabilize the concoction. My grandmother bottled it and used it mostly to prepare rabbit and the wild birds from my father’s hunting expeditions in the forests of Touraine.

If you live in a grape-producing area, you may want to prepare some verjus with some of the underripe second-growth grapes that follow the main harvest. If you have no access to fresh grapes of this kind, simply mix plain red table grape juice with vinegar, as I have done in the following recipe. For this fall and winter dish, I used baby vegetables available here in California. But feel free to cut up larger root vegetables if that’s all you can find.

Perfectly suited to the deep, homey flavors of this classic French dinner, a young, lively Gamay Beaujolais will conjure up images of the harvest.

RABBIT IN VERJUS SAUCE 2 (about 3 pounds each) rabbits Salt Freshly ground pepper Oil 3 cups red grape juice, preferably fresh 1 1/2 cups Gamay Beaujolais or Nouveau Gamay Beaujolais wine 1/4 cup red-wine vinegar 1 cup poultry or veal stock 2 medium onions, coarsely chopped 1 large bunch parsley 1 bay leaf 1 sprig fresh thyme or 1/2 teaspoon dried 1 pound baby carrots, peeled, or larger carrots, peeled and cut into 1-inch lengths 1 pound small rutabagas, peeled 1 pound purple turnips, peeled 2 1/2 tablespoons flour 3 tablespoons unsalted butter 2 finely sliced green onions

Cut each rabbit into 8 pieces: 2 legs, 2 shoulders and 4 pieces of ribs and loin. Season to taste on all sides with salt and pepper. Brush each piece with oil. Place in large bowl, cover and refrigerate.

Combine grape juice, wine, vinegar and stock in large pan. Place over high heat and bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer until reduced to about 1 quart, 10 to 15 minutes.

Heat 2 to 3 tablespoons oil in skillet over medium-high heat. Cook rabbit pieces in batches. Do not overcrowd. Cook only enough in skillet that bottom is just covered with pieces of meat and there is no overlapping. Brown on all sides. Remove browned rabbit to platter and repeat until all rabbit is cooked. Use paper towels to blot up oil from pan. Add onions and toss until browned with rabbit juices remaining at bottom of skillet.

Return rabbit to pan. Tie parsley bunch, bay leaf and thyme in bundle. Add to pan along with salt and pepper to taste and just enough of reduced grape juice mixture to cover meat. Bring to boil, then reduce heat to simmer. Cover, leaving lid slightly ajar, and cook until rabbit is just tender, 45 to 50 minutes.

Meanwhile, blanch carrots, rutabagas and turnips separately few minutes in boiling salted water until vegetables just begin to soften. Drain, refresh in cold running water, and set aside.

Transfer rabbit from skillet to warm serving dish. Heat cooking juices over high heat and reduce to 1/3 to accentuate flavor. Strain juices into clean skillet. Mix flour and butter into smooth paste, then whisk paste into cooking juices and simmer 5 minutes. Return rabbit to skillet. Add vegetables and continue cooking until vegetables are tender. Adjust seasonings to taste. Transfer to country-style dish. Sprinkle with green onions and serve. Makes 6 servings.